“Whah’s dis ting, Genevieve?” Eion asks, picking up a little troll with purple hair from a shelf. “That’s a troll,” I mutter numbly. “No, ’tis na,” he replies, sniffing it. “Uh, yes it is,” I reply. He raises his eyebrow at me and says, “Dis is na a troll. Trolls are huge and dey smell like arse and dey have razor-sharp teeth dat ’twill gut ye if ye get too close to dem. Dis is a little naked, plastic ting dat’s na da least bit scary.” “Oh,” I reply, stumped. I walk over to the bed and pick up my pillow. Bringing it to my nose I can just make out the smell of home that still lingers faintly on
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